


find a home for your love (home isn't always a place)

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Car Sex, Complicated Relationships, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Multi, POV Fred Andrews, Pre-Canon, Teasing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 18:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: He knows that this thing FP and Alice do, the needling and teasing, the way they pull him into these situations, is all masking something else, something deeper. He knows that, if he ever asked, there would be a place for him in their relationship, their lives. They’d carve out a spot for him, arealspot, in a heartbeat.But Fred can’t ask for that. He can’t ask for something that he isn’t ready for. He can’t ask for something that can’t happen, not so long as the three of them remain in Riverdale, and he can’t ask them to leave.(or: sometimes, a threesome isn't just a threesome. sometimes, it's a plea for something more.)





	find a home for your love (home isn't always a place)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the following prompt from the [Riverdale Kink Meme](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/): 
> 
> "Alice/FP/Fred, ganging up. When they were younger, Alice and FP made quite the team on the South Side, and they loved nothing more than teasing and sweet-talking good-boy Fred Andrews into threesomes."
> 
> also written for the 2017 Merry Month of Masturbation! set after the end of senior year, so everyone is over 18.

All Fred wants to do is eat breakfast in peace. 

He didn’t sleep well last night; the air had been full of humidity, so overwhelming Fred nearly choked on it as he lay in bed, skin slicked with sweat, trying to find a cool patch on his bed. Just when he’d thought that sleep was within his reach, a thunderstorm had started up and seemed to go on for hours, explosion after explosion of sound and light. When he’d finally drifted off, it had been to the sound of rain lashing at his window and the thought that maybe the storm would finally break through the heatwave that’s been smothering the town for nearly a week. 

No such luck. The mercury is supposed to hit 100 by noon, and Fred can already feel phantom sweat streaming down his back. 

It’s going to be a hell of a day but, at the very least, Pop’s breakfast is as delicious as ever, and Fred’s able to enjoy it in near-silence, in a booth of his own, before he heads to the construction site for seven o’clock. 

He’s just cut into his second sausage when the bell over the door rings, and heavy boots start clomping in his direction. 

His peace is about to come to an end. 

“Well, look who it is.” If FP means to sound genuinely surprised, he utterly fails. He claps one hand on Fred’s shoulder as he strides by and slides into the other side of the booth, immediately spreading himself out, arms thrown over the back of the seat like he’s staking out his territory. He looks like he rolled out of bed mere moments ago; there’s stubble spreading up his cheeks and loose strands of hair falling onto his forehead. His flannel is rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pack of smokes sticking out of the breast pocket. 

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and it arrives mere moments later in the form of Alice. Her blonde hair is teased high, and Fred can smell the product in it even before she sits down beside FP, pressing right into his side. She’s wearing one of FP’s ragged band shirts, and the holes scattered across the fabric allow Fred to discern the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra. 

He lowers his gaze back to his plate and stabs at a clump of scrambled eggs. 

“Good morning Alice," he says. "Surprised you’re up and about this early." 

“Haven’t gone to sleep yet,” she responds, reaching across the table and plucking a strawberry from the bowl of fresh fruit salad that came with Fred’s meal. “I was working all night. FP was just taking me home. Figured we’d stop on the way for a milkshake." Her house is nowhere near Pop's, but there’s no point in bringing that up; Alice will just shrug and keep talking, and FP won’t say anything at all. He’ll just flash Fred the smirk he wears so well, the one that Fred thinks about at night when he can’t sleep and he’s hard inside his shorts.

“It’s six thirty,” he pointedly says instead. 

“It’s never too early for a milkshake. Or too late. Also, I put it on your tab,” Alice replies, just as the waitress sets down a towering pink shake, capped with a plume of whipped cream and no less than three maraschino cherries. Alice plucks up one with fingernails painted the color of blood and pops it into her mouth, stem and all. Before Fred can return his attention to his plate, FP clears his throat and, reflexively, Fred turns his eyes to him instead. 

“You doin’ anything tonight?” he asks. “Any exciting plans?” 

“ _Please_ ,” Alice says, pulling the stem out of her mouth and dropping it on Fred’s plate. “You and I both know the only other person in this town that Fred hangs out with is his own right hand.”

Fred clenches his jaw and wills himself not to blush, even though he can already feel warmth spreading up his neck and onto his cheeks. 

FP doesn’t laugh, but when Fred looks over at him, away from Alice’s smug grin, FP is just staring at him, one eyebrow cocked, the corner of his mouth tugged into the beginning of a smirk. Fred’s cheeks grow hotter, and he turns back to the last remnants of his meal. 

“I was thinking about calling Hermione, actually,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible, like it’s an idea he’s had for days, not something he’s pulling out of his brain on the fly. “See if she wanted to go out for dinner or something.” 

This time, FP laughs, _chuckles_. Underneath the table, one of his booted feet presses up against Fred’s calf. 

“Think you missed the boat on that, buddy. Have it on good authority that she’s exclusive with Hiram now.” 

“I’m the good authority,” Alice adds, unnecessarily. Her lips are stained pink from the shake, and as Fred watches, she drags her thumb through a curl of whipped cream and brings it to her mouth, licking it off. FP’s foot drags up his leg higher, almost to the bend of his knee, and Fred’s fingers tighten around his fork, until the metal is digging into the meat of his palm. 

He almost misses the days when they at least _tried_ to be subtle. 

“Well, fine then,” he says, looking around for the waitress so that he can settle his tab. “Guess I’ll just stay in and watch some TV with the folks.” 

“Nah,” FP says, leaning forward as far as he can without removing his arms from the back of the booth. “The new Carpenter movie is playing at the Twilight.” He doesn’t extend an invitation, doesn’t ask, but Fred knows it’s there all the same. 

“What if I say no?” he asks, trying to at least sound like he’s considering it. Truth be told, much as he hates to admit it, they’re right; they aren’t his _only_ friends by any stretch of the imagination, but most everyone else has been busy all summer, working at their own jobs or off visiting relatives or touring the colleges they’ll be going to come August. FP and Alice are the only ones that are consistently around, even if their motives for wanting to spend time with him are sometimes less than pure. 

“Then we’ll show up anyways. Toss rocks at your window or something,” FP responds, shrugging his shoulders. Alice passes him one of the cherries from her shake and, without taking his eyes off Fred, he grabs it from her fingers with his teeth. It should be cheesy, downright embarrassing to watch, if only because the purpose of it is so damn obvious.

Instead, Fred’s cock twitches in his pants.

“Fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat and ducking his face back towards his food. “What time?” 

Nine,” Alice answers, polishing off her shake. “I want to get there early so we can choose our spot. And get some Twizzlers before they run out.” She slides out of the booth and gets to her feet, hair falling into her face. There’s a smear of whipped cream on the corner of her pink lips that Fred wants to run his tongue over. “Coming, FP?” 

“Right behind you,” FP says, sliding across the booth. Once he’s on his feet, he steals a piece of sausage from Fred’s plate and licks the grease from his fingers. “Tell the boss I’ll be a few minutes late.” He drops his clean hand to Fred’s shoulder and lingers for a beat too long. Finally, he lets go and strides away, the thud of his boots on the linoleum absurdly loud in Fred’s ears. Fred waits until he hears the bell ring over the front door before he drops his head into his hands and exhales loudly, all thoughts of finishing his breakfast gone. 

He doesn’t know how he got himself into this situation. 

More alarmingly, he isn’t sure if he’d choose to get out of it, even if the opportunity presented itself, which isn’t likely to happen anytime soon; when Alice and FP want something (or someone), there’s nothing that can stop them. 

They make a hell of a team, and Fred is outnumbered and outmatched. 

&. 

By eleven o’clock, Fred feels like he’s working in a blast furnace. He’s sweated clean through his tee, and beads of perspiration keep sliding between the narrow space between his goggles and his eyes, nearly blinding him. It’s too hot to do much of anything that isn’t focusing on working and chugging back water so that he doesn’t pass out so, even though FP is mere inches away from him for most of the morning, the topic of their drive-in date doesn’t come up.

At lunch, they collapse in the shade of a tree by the construction trailer. Fred has four sandwiches in his metal lunch pail, all made by his mom, and he gives half to FP without a word. They eat shoulder to shoulder, complain about the insufferable heat, talk about how the new guy isn’t pulling his weight, drink more water. As the hour starts winding down, FP reaches out and runs his scarred index finger the length of Fred’s forearm, from his elbow to his wrist, tracing over the veins pulsing underneath his skin. 

“Alice is lookin’ forward to tonight,” he comments, sliding his finger down to the center of Fred’s palm, pressing in hard enough for the flesh to divot.

“Yeah,” Fred mutters, curling his fingers inward until his knuckles are brushing against FP’s. “Me too.” 

&.

They get off work at four. As they split up to go to their separate vehicles, FP yells back over his shoulder, voice muffled as he yanks his sweat-stained shirt over his head with one hand. 

“Nine o’clock! Don’t forget!” The length of his spine all the way to the waist of his filthy jeans is slicked with sweat, and his muscles roll underneath his skin as he finishes yanking the shirt off and drapes it over one arm. 

Fred doesn’t know if FP did it on purpose, but if he had to guess, he’d lean towards yes. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, turning away before he can witness the smug smirk that is, quite possibly, decorating FP’s face. “I’ll be ready.” 

He stands under the shower for what feels like an eternity, letting the hot spray soak away the sweat and the soreness permeating his muscles. When he gets out, his mom is hollering that dinner is on the table, and there’s still four hours until he has to head out. 

In those four hours, his mind goes from one extreme to the other. Part of him is grudgingly excited, is actually looking forward to the date, to whatever FP and Alice have planned for him. The other part of him, the part of him that wonders just how the hell they’ve talked him into this again, wants to run for the hills. That part of him toys with the idea of calling Hermione after all, seeing if he could crash on her couch for the night. 

But FP and Alice would find him there. It’s one of their many combined skills: finding him wherever he goes. 

So he eats dinner with his parents, mows the lawn, sits in front of the television and waits for the hours to tick by. 

Ten minutes past nine, he hears them coming. Without even looking out the window, he knows that FP has brought his old man’s truck; the exhaust is in desperate need of repair, and the sound it makes, a deep wheezing rumble, is nothing short of godawful. When Fred levers himself out of the armchair in the corner of the living room, he catches the look his father sends him, a silent interrogation. 

“We’re going to the drive-in,” he says by way of explanation, willing his cheeks not to fill with warmth. “Shouldn’t be home too late.” 

“I’ll leave the back door open.” There’s no approval in his father’s tone, just grudging acceptance, but Fred will take what he can get. 

He steps outside into the still, balmy night just as FP pulls into the driveway. Alice’s legs, clad in the same jeans from earlier, are sticking out the passenger window, capped off by a pair of heavy boots that look a size too big. 

Fred wouldn’t be surprised if she stole them from someone down at the bar she works at. 

She shuffles over into the middle of the bench seat once he approaches. Once Fred’s secured, seat belt strapped across his chest, she throws her legs over his, until they’re resting across his thighs and her back is pressed to FP’s side. 

“And here I thought we were going to have to drag you out,” she says by way of greeting. 

“I knew he was gonna come,” FP says, throwing the truck in reverse. “Didn’t doubt you for a minute, Freddie.”

Fred has long given up on telling the two of them not to call him that, so he just rolls his eyes and tries to figure out where to put his hands. Before he can fumble too much, Alice leans forward, grabs his wrists and places his hands on her calves. Both legs of her jeans have huge holes in them at that exact spot, so his palms and fingers skirt over smooth, warm skin. 

“Jesus,” she says, patting his cheek once. “You’d think you’d never touched us before.” 

“Just don’t want to cross any lines,” he mutters defensively, allowing his fingers to fit around the curve of her calf. This time, it’s FP that speaks up, talking loud to be heard over the faulty exhaust. 

“You know damn well the only lines here are the ones you draw.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice that makes sour guilt flood into Fred’s mouth. He almost sounds _hurt_ , and Fred can’t bring himself to look over at that side of the truck, can’t bring himself to lift his gaze away from his hands and Alice’s legs. 

Mainly, he can’t bring himself to retort or defend himself, because what FP says is the truth. 

It’s Alice who breaks the silence for them, just when Fred thinks he might suffocate under the weight of it. 

“Alright,” she says, leaning forward and flicking on the radio, which immediately starts blaring hair metal. “Enough of that.” 

The music isn’t exactly Fred’s taste, but he’s just relieved to be able to breathe again. 

&.

Even though there’s still half an hour until the movie starts, the drive-in is already half-full. FP has to slow to a crawl as they pull inside, constantly tap the brakes as people dart in between the truck and the Oldsmobile they’re stuck behind. 

“Alice,” he says once they’ve actually reached the rows, “where we going?” Alice pulls her legs off Fred’s thighs and clambers across his lap, until she’s perched on the edge of the window, torso outside of the truck. Fred instinctively wraps an arm around her legs, holding her steady. 

“Turn down here,” she answers, yelling to be heard above the radio, the shitty exhaust, and the clamor of everyone outside. “Head straight to the back.” FP does as he’s asked, and Alice slides back inside the truck, although she doesn’t bother moving back to the middle of the seat; she simply perches herself on Fred’s lap. She smells like sugar and raspberries, probably one of the cheap body sprays that FP gave her for her birthday a few months back. There’s glitter on her cheeks and her lips are slicked with gloss, and Fred is hopelessly stuck on her. 

Hopelessly stuck on _them._

FP drives until they’ve reached the very end of the row and pulls into a spot right next to the chain-link fence that borders the property. As a movie watching spot, it’s probably one of the worst places on the lot; their view of the screen is obstructed by light posts, and it’s a hell of a trek to the concession stand and washrooms. 

But as a spot for privacy, it’s hard to beat. The light from the lampposts doesn’t reach back this far, and there’s three spaces between them and the next car. If anyone does pull in right beside them, they’ll probably be too interested in their own activities to pay much mind to what’s going on in the truck bed beside them.

At least Fred hopes so.

“I’m getting Twizzlers,” Alice says, shoving the door open and hopping off Fred’s lap. “You two want anything?” Fred shakes his head as he follows after her. 

“Popcorn, maybe,” FP says, slamming the driver’s door. “Depending on who’s working. And a Pepsi.”

“Coming right up.” Alice walks off, and FP heads around to the back of the truck, yanks the tailgate down with a horrible screech. He climbs up and unzips a bag, a huge duffle that used to hold football equipment, back in the day.

“Brought some blankets,” he says, tossing a haphazardly folded one over his shoulder. Fred catches it as he hauls himself up and shakes it out. It smells like cigarette smoke and dust; the airing out will do them good. 

They work in silence, spreading the blankets out until they cover the entire truck bed, overlap in an array of patterns and textures. Fred sinks down with his back against the cab and buries a yawn into his shoulder. 

“Man, I’m glad we’re not working tomorrow,” he mutters, stretching his legs out. FP settles down beside him, leaves no more than two inches between them as he nods. 

“Don’t know about you,” he says, “but I ain’t planning on moving until noon. At the earliest.” That isn’t quite an option for Fred; his sleep schedule is locked in too tightly. He’ll probably still be up at five-thirty, and as soon as he eats breakfast, his dad will probably put him to work on something, keep him busy for most of the day. 

“Sounds like a hell of a plan,” he comments. He isn’t aware of moving, but FP’s shoulder bumps against his, and Fred glances sideways. It’s hard to make out FP’s features in the dark, but he can still feel his eyes on him. If Fred brought his fingertips up to FP’s jaw, he has a feeling it’d be clenched tight. Just thinking about it makes Fred’s stomach churn.

There’s so much that he wants to say. 

“Forsythe,” he begins, but FP drops a hand to his thigh and squeezes tight before he can continue. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice edged with steel. “Don’t apologize, Fred. Not unless you’re really feeling sorry.” 

Fred _is_ sorry. But he knows what FP is actually asking for, and that isn’t something Fred can give him. He knows that this thing FP and Alice do, the needling and teasing, the way they pull him into these situations, is all masking something else, something deeper. He knows that, if he ever asked, there would be a place for him in their relationship, their lives. They’d carve out a spot for him, a _real_ spot, in a heartbeat. 

But Fred can’t ask for that. He can’t ask for something that he isn’t ready for. He can’t ask for something that can’t happen, not so long as the three of them remain in Riverdale, and he can’t ask them to leave. 

“Alright,” he says quietly, dropping a hand on top of FP’s, which is still spread across his thigh like a brand. “Forget I said anything.” 

“Already done.”

He doesn’t see FP move until he’s leaning over top of him, rough lips pressing to the corner of Fred's mouth before properly kissing him. He wraps his free hand in the front of Fred’s t-shirt, tugs until Fred is forced to move away from the cab. He takes a quick moment to glance around, just to make sure they’re still sufficiently isolated. Thankfully, there’s still three spaces between them and the nearest car, and the screen has switched from advertising the concession stand to showcasing upcoming attractions, which means traffic into the lot is about to slow down. 

Coast clear, he keeps moving until he’s flat on his back, the blankets underneath him just barely cushioning the hard surface of the truck bed. FP comes with him, settles heavily between his legs, nearly knocking the wind out of him. They pick up right where they left off, mouths finding each other once more. FP’s hand loosens in Fred’s shirt and plants itself beside his shoulder, holding himself up. Fred’s hands splay across FP’s back, over muscles both old and newly developed. Nearby, an engine backfires, and he jumps slightly, just enough to make their hips press together. 

FP’s teeth sink into his lip, just enough for it to hurt, and Fred momentarily forgets how to breathe.

Before he can respond in kind, the truck shakes as Alice hops up beside then. She tosses a plastic bag towards them before she leans forward and pulls the tailgate up, giving them some semblance of being cut off from the outside world. 

“Got you both a Pepsi. No popcorn though. Hal’s working the stand tonight.” FP mutters something that’s almost certainly an insult as he drops his head down to the spot where Fred’s neck meets his shoulder. His teeth immediately start worrying at the thin skin there, and if everything goes the way it tends to when they fall together, Fred knows that he's going to be _littered_ with hickies by the time the movie ends. Fred’s instinct is to let his eyes fall closed, but he forces himself to look over at Alice, who is nibbling on a Twizzler. 

“Guess it’s a good thing I grabbed napkins,” she remarks. She reaches out one hand and runs it from Fred’s forehead back through his hair, sharp nails raking along his scalp. 

“Guess so,” Fred replies breathlessly, biting at his own mouth when FP’s teeth scrape along his collarbone. Alice leans in closer, lips quirked into a smile that’s almost disarmingly genuine. It makes her even more stunning than usual, and for a moment, Fred is hit with a stab of longing so painful that he almost considers running away, slipping out from underneath FP’s body and booking it home. 

But they wouldn’t let him leave and, truth be told, the pain is almost worth it. 

Once she’s finished her Twizzler, she moves, carefully climbs over the two of them until she’s on Fred’s other side, slotted between him and the side of the truck. She throws one leg over his and turns his head towards her with a single finger placed on his jaw. Twisting to look at her exposes more of his neck to FP, who immediately takes advantage of it by sucking a bruise into the side of Fred’s throat.

When he opens his mouth to gasp, Alice swallows the sound with her gloss-slicked lips. 

&.

Every time they do this, they fall together differently. 

This time, it’s Fred that comes first. 

He doesn’t get a chance to move from his back, not even to take off his shirt. FP keeps working on his neck, harshly yanks his collar aside when he wants to slip down to Fred’s clavicle or over to his shoulders. Eventually, one of Alice’s hands ends up underneath his shirt, flattens against his stomach. When FP’s fingers flick open his belt buckle, Alice takes up where he left off, runs her softer lips along the other side of Fred’s neck until it’s marked up like a graffiti ridden bathroom wall. 

Fred’s going to get hell from his parents tomorrow, and he’s in for some interesting questions from the other guys on the work site come Monday, but that knowledge isn’t enough for him to make them stop. 

FP only pulls Fred’s jeans and briefs down to mid-thigh before he spits into his hand, the sound lewd enough to make Fred blush. For a moment, he thinks that he’s gotten away with it, that the darkness has hidden the flush, but that’s before Alice laughs in his ear, her nose pressing into his cheek. 

“Thought you’d be used to that by now,” she teases, her fingers dancing across his stomach. Her teeth gently tug at his earlobe, and he twists away so that he can capture her mouth again. 

Not a moment too soon. As soon as FP’s hand wraps around his cock, Fred makes a sound, a high gasp, that is almost absurdly embarrassing. 

Much as he hates to give Alice credit, doesn’t want to stroke her ego, he does have to admit that the calloused ridges of FP’s palm do beat the hell out of his own right hand. 

He doesn’t last long; it’s impossible to when the two of them are working on him with everything they’ve got. When he comes, it’s with his hips arching into FP’s grip and one hand up Alice’s shirt, curled around one of her soft breasts. Every time he thumbs at her nipple, she sighs and rolls her hips against his side, and once he’s able to start thinking clearly again, he slides the hand between her legs and presses his fingers into the seam of her jeans. 

“Alice,” FP says, rummaging through the plastic bag until he comes up with a few napkins. “Want Fred to do the honors?” Fred tries to sit up slightly, but as soon as FP touches his still sensitive cock with the rough fabric of the napkin, he drops back down, not sure if he wants to wince away or arch up into FP’s touch. 

“I don’t care,” she replies, moaning as Fred presses his fingers against her again. “So long as someone gets me off.” 

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Suddenly, Alice’s weight against Fred’s side disappears, and when he leans up on his elbows, he realizes it’s because FP has tugged her up by balling a fist in the back of her shirt. She ends up straddling one of Fred’s legs, and as he pulls his jeans and underwear back up, she grinds down against his thigh. FP is behind her, chest pressed against her back, and she tilts her head back onto her shoulder, catching his mouth. The resulting kiss is messy, more twisting tongues than anything. When Alice reaches back and slides her hand into FP’s short hair, he groans from deep in his chest. 

What they’re doing is reckless. If anyone shined a light in their direction, it’d be all too clear what’s happening; their torsos are well above the height of the truck bed. But neither of them seem to care; as Fred watches, FP curls an arm around Alice’s waist and slides his hand into the front of her jeans.

“Can I eat you out?” Fred doesn’t think twice about the words, not until they’re out of his mouth, and at that point, it’s too late to take them back. Both Alice and FP freeze in mid-kiss, but they don’t stay still for long; Alice pulls away from FP’s mouth and smiles, sharp and wicked, like the business edge of a knife. 

“You sure?” she asks. Fred nods and catches FP’s eye over her shoulder. 

“Only if that’s okay.” 

FP smirks, and Fred’s cock twitches. 

“Damn, Fred,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his hand from Alice’s jeans. “If she’s alright with it, I’m game.” 

They rearrange themselves quickly, awkwardly, almost colliding elbows a few times. Eventually, Alice ends up on her back, jeans discarded towards the tailgate, underwear dangling from one ankle. Her legs are hooked over Fred’s shoulders, and she has one hand threaded into his short hair for leverage. Fred’s still fairly new to this, still trying to figure out how best to make her feel good, but he tries to make up for inexperience with enthusiasm. He does his best to pay attention to how her body reacts, to adjust his technique based on how she yanks approvingly at his hair or presses down into his fingers.

Over the sounds of his mouth working at her cunt, Fred can hear the slick sound of FP’s hand working his own cock beside them. When Fred looks up, pressing his tongue flat against Alice’s clit, he ends up locking eyes with FP, who looks so thoroughly _gone_ that Fred wants to document it in a photograph. 

“Hey,” Alice gasps, slapping at FP’s side, back arching, “I can do that. I-”

“I’m doin’ just fine,” FP says, using his free hand to raise hers to his mouth and press a hard kiss against her knuckles. “Don’t worry about me.” His legs fall open a little further, and his hand speeds up, twisting at the head of his cock. Fred decides to follow his lead, albeit to a lesser extent; he curls and twists his fingers slightly, pressing upward. 

Based on how Alice gasps and digs her heels into his back, the move is effective.

FP comes first with a bitten-off groan, spurts onto his hand and his shirt. Before he even cleans himself up, he slumps over, presses his mouth to the side of Alice’s neck and starts whispering up a storm in a low, steady murmur. 

Fred can’t hear any of the words, but based on how Alice comes mere moments later, he can hazard a guess as to what they were. 

Fred doesn’t move until the tension drains from her body and she slumps back against the truck bed. When he withdraws his fingers from her, she groans quietly as he carefully eases her legs off of his shoulders. He wipes his hands off on his jeans, but before he can look for a napkin to drag across his mouth and chin, FP seizes his jaw between his fingers and hauls him forward into a messy kiss that makes a fresh wave of heat simmer through Fred’s system. When FP pulls away, it’s only after he drags the tip of his tongue down Fred’s chin. 

“You know, I grabbed napkins for a reason,” Alice comments. She hasn’t bothered to reach for her jeans or underwear yet, but there’s no sign that being exposed bothers here in any way. 

“You taste good,” FP says with a shrug, tugging his jeans back up to his waist. After he’s zipped them up, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it towards the end of the tailgate before he sags back against the cab. “Hand me a Pepsi.” 

“Fred’s closer,” she replies. The plastic bag is near his feet, so he tosses FP one of the lukewarm cans and uses a wad of napkins to clean off the rest of his face. By the time he finishes up, Alice has managed to pull her underwear back up, and she’s tucked herself against FP’s side. Fred brings the bag with him and, after only a moment of hesitation, situates himself on FP’s other side.

“My Twizzlers better not be squished,” Alice mutters, grabbing the bag and rifling through it. Fred senses rather than sees FP roll his eyes as he passes his Pepsi over to Fred and grabs one of the blankets at their feet, tugs it up so that it’s spread across their laps. Fred steals a sip of FP’s drink while he does so and does his best to look around the lampposts in order to see what’s happening in the movie. A splash of vivid red blood flashes across the screen, and somewhere in the lot, somebody screams in reaction. 

Alice passes him a Twizzler, and as Fredbites into it, FP turns his head until his lips are pressed to Fred’s temple. 

“You glad we got you out of the house?” he murmurs. It could so easily be another one of their teases, but it’s too soft for that, too quiet. It’s a tone FP adapts with no one beyond him and Alice. It’s a tone Fred could hear every single day of his life, if he only asked. 

The thick, sour taste of guilt fills his mouth, overwhelming the sugar of the candy and the last remaining bits of Alice. 

“Yeah,” he answers quietly, digging the fingers of the hand furthest away from FP into his palm. “I am.” 

It’s not a lie, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he wishes it was. 

It would be so much easier if it was.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
